eggnog and boomsticks
by midnightluck
Summary: "I was thinking," Marco repeats, because of course he was, and Thatch puts down the sifter and sets both hands on the counter to brace himself for whatever insane idea is about to come screaming out of Marco's mouth. "Since it's Ace's first Christmas as a Commander, we should do an East Blue Christmas."


"What's up, Marco?" Thatch asks, leaning forward on the counter. "You're—shaking."

"Am not," Marco denies, vibrating in place.

"You absolutely are. Why are you doing that? No, never mind—how are you doing that?"

Marco shakes his head, opens his mouth, closes it again, and then glances at the wall. Thatch follows his eyes to the calendar, and then he sighs, long and loud. "It's December, isn't it?"

"It's December, yoi." Marco agrees, vibrating faster.

"Right. We've been hopping between summer islands so long I forgot."

"It's _December_, Thatch," Marco repeats. "Come on. It's holiday time!"

"Yeah, yeah. Hang on, I'll get you your stupid peppermint Christmas tea."

Marco follows him around the galley as he makes it, hovering over his shoulder like staring at the mug would make the tea steep faster.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't. Marco has to wait on the laws of physics just like the rest of the world, and Thatch ignores him as he putters around, pulling out a plate and arranging a couple cookies and a stick of cinnamon on it. He sets it beside the steeping mug and goes to put the cookies away, and when he comes back Marco has the cinnamon stick in his mouth.

Thatch sighs at him but takes out the tea bag and stirs in a single spoonful of sugar. "I don't know how you still taste things when you do that."

"S'good," Marco says around the stick, and he watches with sharp eyes as Thatch puts the tea cup on the plate, vibrating again from the effort it takes to not make grabby hands like Thatch knows he secretly wants to.

"I know the cinnamon is a phoenix thing," Thatch says, pushing the plate forward, and Marco's got the cup up to breathe in the steam in one second flat. He waits until Marco takes his first sip, eyes closing in happiness, before he adds, "But if I ever catch you nesting in my spice cabinet—"

Marco chokes, sputters, and makes a betrayed face. Thatch grins shamelessly back at him; this is what he gets for being excited for the holidays.

"Phoenixes nest in cinnamon _bark_, yoi," Marco says, clutching his mug, eyes wide and tone wounded like he thinks Thatch is actually serious. "I _wouldn't."_

"I know, you nerd. Now shut up and drink your tea."

Marco does, and Thatch starts pulling out eggs and butter. He's probably got enough time to whip up some sugar cookie dough to set chilling.

"Hey, I was thinking," Marco says a while later as Thatch is sifting the dry ingredients together.

"Uh oh," Thatch says under his breath. He's earned the name troublemaker, but Marco's just as bad, really; he just has more impulse control.

Marco ignores him and says, "This'll be Ace's first Christmas onboard, yoi."

Thatch stops a second to blink at that. "It will, won't it? And he's a Commander now. Huh. We should do something nice."

"I was thinking," Marco repeats, because of course he was, and Thatch puts down the sifter and sets both hands on the counter to brace himself for whatever insane idea is about to come screaming out of Marco's mouth. "We should do an East Blue Christmas."

That…doesn't sound so bad. Thatch ignores the small voice that points out that the ideas that seem the most reasonable always turn out the worst, and turns that thought over, poking it for holes. "Huh," he says.

"Find some East Blue carols, yoi," Marco says, twisting the mug in his hands. "I think they decorate their trees with paper, don't they?"

"A couple traditional dishes," Thatch adds, warming up to the idea. "They have an excellent way of roasting pig and boar, with brown sugar and apples."

"There's something with a Yule log, yoi."

"Nesselrode! Yes, I'll need chestnuts, so many chestnuts—hang on, let me start a list—"

Marco takes the pencil and paper when he digs it out and starts writing. "Go on, finish that. Let's see…"

While Thatch works the dough together, he and Marco go back and forth and come to the conclusion that they do not, in fact, know enough about East Blue culture to pull something like this off.

"Well," Thatch says when he's got the dough in the icebox and is wiping down the counter. He takes off the water he'd pre-emptively set boiling and drops in a tea bag and a pinch of sugar. "You know what this means, right?"

Marco sighs, and holds out his tea cup. Thatch refills it and waits for Marco to say it out loud. It takes him two sips before he finally admits, "We need Haruta."

* * *

"East Blue," Haruta repeats. "Hmm."

"They do paper tree decorations, right? It can't be too hard, yoi."

Haruta sits still for a long moment, then says, "Hikeki."

The Intelligence Division's Second-in-Command melts out of a corner that Thatch could have sworn was empty, and Thatch jumps and swears.

"Yes, Commander?"

"I want a dossier on Christmas in East Blue. Interviews, research—send out squads Beta and Theta, usual drill. And pull the portfolios; East Blue is—"

"—red tagged, yessir," Hikeki says and melts away into a corner that's definitely empty this time; Thatch double-checks.

The thing is, is that Haruta is in charge of the largest intelligence network on the seas, and the scariest Division of the Whitebeards. Anything they do not know, they can find out, and they have files on everyone and everything.

It's just easy to forget, because Haruta exists in a perpetual state of chaos, but the entire Twelfth Division is terrifying and their Commander is no exception.

Haruta holds out one hand and says, "List." Marco hands over what they'd scribbled, and Haruta reads through it, crosses out a few things, and makes notes. "Okay, we'll start with decorations; candles are a thing, I know, and plant-based decorations. Can we detour? Do we have time? Never mind, decorations are Izo's—we need a meeting."

"I'll look at budget and schedule, yoi. Tonight?"

"After dinner," Haruta agrees. "I'll have a briefing by then. Thach, find the Spades and ask what they did last year. I need—Fossa…" Haruta's eyes go distant in a way that heralds both the most genius strategic maneuvers Thatch has ever seen, and also the greatest disasters.

"Commander," Hikeki says, just _appearing_ beside Haruta, and Thatch jumps. "A list of brothers; we've got Gamma doing onboard recon."

He hands over a folder and Haruta flips it open, scribbles something, hums, and then looks back up at them. "Well? Get out!"

"Right," Thatch says, grabs Marco, and flees. The door closes behind them, and Thatch sighs. "Well. Guess we're doing this, then."

"It'll be nice," Marco says. "Haruta always gets over-invested in the holidays. Remember the year we couldn't find the star?"

The sound that Thatch makes is sharp, involuntary, and very nearly laughter. "Yes. I remember. I remember that vividly." He shudders a bit at the memory, in fact, and Marco shakes his head. "Hey, you've got that Spade kid in the infirmary, right? What's his name, Twos?"

"Masked Deuce, yoi. He's on shift today, yeah."

"Right, thanks. Have fun with numbers. See you at dinner." He gives Marco a casual punch on the shoulder and peels off at the next intersection, but then something occurs to him. He spins on one heel, cups his hands around his mouth and calls, "You get to tell Pops!"

Marco waves one hand over his shoulder without looking back and Thatch huffs and continues to the infirmary.

The door is open, Thatch can tell, because he can hear the rant long before he even gets there. "—why we don't eat things we find," someone is saying. "We're on the Grand Line, Captain; nature here—"

"Not your Captain, Deuce—"

"—the sea _actively hates you,_ maybe remember that before _eating random fish—"_

"I cooked it first!"

Thatch arrives in enough time to see Masked Deuce flail his arms demonstratively at Ace sitting on a patient bed. "And did that _help?!"_

"Well—" starts Ace, and Deuce makes a frustrated noise.

"No," he says, sticking a finger in Ace's face. "Stop eating things you find on the ground, Captain."

"Not—oh, hey, Thatch!"

Thatch grins at him and glances at Deuce, who straightens up and flushes. "Division Commander! I didn't hear you come in! Uh, sorry, I'm just—"

"—doing a good job, yes, I see," Thatch says. "I'm glad to see Ace has a sense of self-preservation, even if it's external. Nice to meet ya!"

"Uh," Deuce says, and Thatch takes pity on him.

"Is Ace dying?" he asks, and Deuce shakes his head. "Anything you can treat him for? I know the stupidity is incurable, but does he need to be in here?"

"Not technically," Deuce says, then sighs. "It's just easier to keep an eye on him. If you need him, Division Commander, he's all yours."

"Great!" Thatch grabs Ace and tows him to the door. Ace goes willingly, and Thatch says, "Then get out," shoves him through, and closes the door behind him.

"Hey!" Ace says, but Thatch puts his back to the door and smiles at Deuce, who twitches once, violently, then sighs.

"Can I help you, Commander?"

_"Hey!"_ Ace hollers again, banging on the door.

"Occupied!" Thatch shouts back. "Yeah, but first, call me Thatch. Commander makes me wanna find a responsible adult for you to talk to, and Marco's not here."

"Hey!"

Thatch closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then opens them, smiles at Deuce, and says, "Excuse me a minute." He turns, opens the door, and ducks the fist Ace is still knocking with. "Hi, Ace. Mind giving me a sec here? We're kinda in the middle of something."

"What—"

"Top secret, very hush hush, you know."

"But Deuce—"

"Is a competent adult and a trained professional, and I just need his advice real quick, okay? Now sit down and shut up; you can have him back later."

"Oh," Ace says, and then he obviously gets it. "Oh! Of course! Sorry, I didn't realize—I didn't mean to embarrass you!"

That is not what Thatch meant at all. "What?"

"I'm sure it's a very important medical question, nothing to be embarrassed about at all! I'll be in a galley later, okay, Deuce? Help my bro here out, if you can!"

"That's not—" Thatch starts. "Wait, I didn't—"

"Of course, Captain," Masked Deuce says. "See you later!"

Ace waves and turns and Thatch calls after him, "No, it's not like that!"

"I get it!" Ace yells back. "Don't worry! I won't tell!"

Thatch watches him go, then turns blank eyes to Masked Deuce. "I didn't," he says. "I don't."

"Sure," Masked Deuce says, and his lips are twitching, the traitor. "Of course not, Comm—Thatch. What can I help you with?"

"I—okay, I do want your advice, but _not in a medical manner!_ Stop! Stop grinning like—shut up, okay! How does Ace celebrate Christmas?"

It's Deuce's turn to blink. "Uh, Christmas? I don't know."

"You never celebrated with the Spades?"

"Huh. No, we didn't. We were traveling, and no one was looking at a calendar, I guess? Some of the Spades traded gifts, but Ace never did."

"No tree, or decorations, or favorite foods?"

Deuce make a huff that's half surprise, half laugh. "Ace? Favorite foods?"

"Right," Thatch says, making a face back at him. "Right, silly me. All foods are his favorite."

"He likes meat the best, of course."

"Of course, yeah. But really? No Christmas? A different holiday?"

"We never celebrated anything, really. Besides birthdays. Captain's never forgotten a birthday. Speaking of, do you know when his birthday is?"

"I—" Thatch starts, but then he stops. "No, I don't. Actually. Huh. I'll see if I can find out, and then I'll let you know, okay?"

"I'd appreciate it." Thatch sighs, and Masked Deuce echoes him. "Uh, sir? If you don't mind me asking, why do you want to know?"

"Oh! It was Marco's idea. We were thinking to do a proper East Blue Christmas, to make him feel welcome as a Commander, you know? So we're trying to find out—well, anything, really."

Masked Decue smiles at him, wide and real, and his eyes crinkle up. "I'm so glad we came here," he says. "I can't tell you about him in specific, but I grew up in East Blue, too, on an island nearby. If I can help—"

"Yes," Thatch says immediately. "Haruta will have questions for you later, but right now? Tell me everything about the food."

* * *

"Okay," Haruta says, slapping an upsettingly large folder down on the table. "Briefing time."

"Wait, what?" Vista says. "Briefing? I thought it was about Christmas."

"It is, yoi." Marco steps up beside Haruta, who yields the floor gracefully. "We were thinking—"

"You were thinking," Thatch corrects under his breath, angrily scribbling ingredient lists.

"—it's our Second Division Commander's first Christmas on board. It was suggested—"

"By you," Thatch mutters.

"—that we do an East Blue style Christmas, to make him feel at home and _Thatch, what is your problem?"_

"My problem?" Thatch asks, pressing down hard enough on the pencil point that it snaps. "My _problem_ is potatoes. I talked to five different crewmen from East Blue, and do you know how many different answers there were to 'what's the traditional potato dish?' I'll tell you. It was seven. Seven! And I asked five people!"

Marco sighs. "Okay, we'll figure out the menu in a bit. Can we catch everyone up first? Is that okay with you?"

"Yeah, yeah," Thatch sighs, throwing his pencil down. "I talked to Masked Deuce, and they apparently never celebrated Christmas or any other holiday, so traditional East Blue it is. By the way, does anyone know when Ace's birthday is?"

There's a long enough silence that it's clear no one does, and then Haruta says, eyes narrowed, "I'll find out."

"Right, so East Blue. The plan is pretty simple, really; decorate the tree right, learn a carol or two, traditional food, yoi. Haruta's done the research. Haruta?"

Haruta steps up and flips open that large file, and takes out, of all things, a picturebook. It's bookmarked to a specific page and Haruta opens it, lays it flat on the table, and slides it to the middle. "Tree decorations are made with paper—" Izo makes a noise deep in his throat, and Haruta keeps talking over him. "Candles; sources conflict on if they should be red or white, with green as an outlier. I have sheet music here for traditional carols, and apparently there's a Yule log that's set on fire that people jump over. It's to symbolize overcoming past hardship and going into the new year fresh, apparently."

"That's a lot of fire around a tree decked in paper," Izo says delicately.

"And the tree," Haruta continues on without acknowledging, "is traditionally topped with an angel."

There's another moment of quiet as everyone looks at Haruta with wary eyes and Haruta gazes fixedly at the back wall. Apparently everyone else remembers the year without the star as clearly as Thatch does.

Haruta takes a deep breath, flattens shaking palms on the table, and says, "Cake. It's also traditional to have a cake. Apparently this can be in the shape of the Yule log if you aren't gonna set it on fire, but since it's for Ace…"

"Bigger cake, more fire," Thatch picks up when it's clear Haruta's not going to finish. "As far as the menu goes, we're looking at pork. Pig, boar, whatever. Apples and other fruits are common, but we can get by with a lot of what we've already got and some common Grand Line substitutions. I'm gonna need chestnuts, though, and potatoes. So many potatoes."

"I'll get the tree," Fossa says, stealing the storybook out from under Izo's hand and squinting at it. "Was gonna get one anyway, from the same island as last year. Curiel, you mind?"

"I'm with ya, sure. Doing this on the deck, right? Bet we can get a pretty big tree, then, yeah?"

"We'll be on setup, as usual," Kingdew says. "Haruta, gonna need—"

Haruta takes a much thinner folder from the bigger one and hands it off. "Layout for the deck, tables marked in green, chairs in blue. Linens and accessories listed by category, a rough schedule for prep and party, and a list of crewmates from East Blue if you have questions."

It's only been three, maybe four hours since they brought this up to Haruta. Thatch eyes the folder, still bulging with color-coding tags, and shivers.

"Jozu," Haruta continues, fishing out another little folder and sliding it towards the other Commander. "Projected budget lists, minus food—get with Thatch on that. Appropriation forms, the usual."

"I'll make it work," Jozu promises, picking it up.

"Atmos, Rakuyo, you're on distraction duty. Keep Pops sane, happy, and away from the sake. And Ace will not suspect a thing, you understand me?"

"Understood. Won't be a problem."

"Namur, your men are the fastest. We need these things, or passable substitutes, and the sooner the better."

"On it, Haruta."

"If you didn't get an assignment, you're on support. Find someone you can help, and do it." There's a commotion as Commanders get up, murmuring to each other and looking through papers. Haruta stays at the front of the table, braced on both palms and head down over the folder.

"Haruta?" Thatch says, stepping up beside the other Commander. "You good?"

Haruta takes a deep breath, exhales, and skinny shoulders slump under green fabric. "Yeah, just, y'know. Getting everything together. But hey! Now for the fun stuff!"

It sounds tired, though, and Haruta should never sound tired. "It is the holidays, after all," Thatch says, and pulls a napkin-wrapped bundle out of his pocket. "Speaking of…"

He slips the decorated sugar cookies on top of the folder and gets a quick flash of a smile in response. "Take a break, okay?"

"Right," Haruta agrees. "Absolutely. I will take a break right after this."

That sounds fake, but Thatch isn't gonna call it out, either. "Oh, turns out Ace's old first mate is from a nearby island and knows lots of stuff. I told him you might have some questions for him."

"Already interviewed him," Haruta says, shuffling the cookies to the side and flipping through the papers to find a report that looks remarkably like their standard post-torture and interrogation write-ups.

Thatch puts a hand on Haruta's shoulder and says fondly, "You're terrifying, you know that?"

Haruta grins up at him. "Thanks. And thanks for the cookies. And hey, don't forget to get Jozu those numbers, we're working on a deadline—"

Thatch take a step back to leave as well, and he raises both hands and makes a face. "I know, I know. He'll have them in the morning. And you, don't forget to sleep, okay?"

"Of course I won't," Haruta lies, and Thatch makes a mental note to check in on Haruta again tomorrow. "Marco? Hey, Marco, quick word—"

* * *

"Pigs," Thatch says to his division. "Pork. Namur's boys are fetching us all the ingredients we need, but this is hanging on us."

"Yes, Chef," they chorus at him.

"Thatch!" Jozu yells, and Thatch sighs and waves his chefs off to review the list of dishes Haruta gave him. "Thatch, I need the numbers."

"Right," Thatch says, turning around to grab the file. It slips off the counter and he sighs, walks around to pick it up, and finally holds it out to Jozu.

Jozu stares at it like he's not sure if it's real, and Thatch frowns. "You okay?"

"What? Oh, yeah, sorry. Just—budget is a nightmare, you know? We know what we're doing with Christmas, usually, but all this importing and changing stuff—it's gotten complicated."

"I get it," That says and sighs, and Jozu finally takes the folder. "And food is the biggest expense."

"Yeah, and—what, wait, how many potatoes?"

"Oh no," Thatch says because he did the calculations and is ready to share the joy around. "Oh, no, Jozu. That's not how many potatoes. That's how many _pounds."_

Jozu looks at him, then down at the paper, and then back up at him.

Thatch spreads his hands helplessly.

"Right," Jozu says faintly. "I don't—I'll figure out the budget."

"Yeah, you do that. Oh, hey, wait! Here, take some of these."

Jozu accepts the small bundle of cookies, grinning at them, and for a second he looks normal, not tired or worried. "Thanks, Thatch. Maybe this Christmas won't be so bad."

"Course it won't. And if you see Marco, tell him I want to talk to him, okay?"

Jozu nods and says something through the cookie in his mouth, and Thatch waves him out of the kitchen. He hollers for his sous chef, wiping his hands on a towel.

"Okay, everything else is pretty straight forward, but nesselrode, okay, you made this before? No worries, it's pretty simple, once you get past the chestnuts. Okay, let's start with candied peel—"

He loses the afternoon to chestnut cream, and it's not until early evening that he blinks up at a doorframe with Marco in it. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, I—sorry, I don't have tea ready—"

Marco takes a step forward and puts a hand on Thatch's shoulder. "You okay there? Breathe, yoi."

"Right. No, sorry; we just figured out how much work this is gonna take. Here, try this."

Marco lets Thatch pop the spoon into his mouth without hesitating, and then his eyes go wide. He swallows and says, "That is amazing. Is that chestnuts?"

"Not too much orange?"

"No, yoi. It's delicious."

Thatch sighs and takes a spoonful for himself. Maybe there's too much orange zest, but maybe he's just imagining it. "I wish I had something to compare it against, but even Namur can't get frozen cream desserts here from East Blue fast enough."

"It's perfect," Marco insists, and Thatch snorts but digs out the container of sugar cookies.

"Here," he says, pushing it across the counter. "Spoil your dinner. Okay, so, listen."

Marco looks up at him, a cookie in each hand and one in his mouth already, and makes a vague questioning sound.

"Right, so I'm worried about Haruta." Marco makes a noise, and Thatch sighs. "Yeah, I've seen the focus-mode before and we can't count on Haruta remembering to sleep, or be reasonable, you know?"

Marco nods, licking icing off his fingers, and Thatch nods back. Haruta is many things, but good at self-care is not among them.

"And we did ask for this, so it's kinda our fault, you know, so—"

"Oh, so now it's _us,"_ Marco interrupts, but he's smiling.

Thatch waves him off, turning to put another pot on the stove. He's got more chestnuts to blanche. "It's your bad idea, but I am now officially aiding and abetting. Share the blame or the success; you know how this goes."

"Thank you, by the way. I appreciate—"

"So it's your job to keep an eye on Haruta, is what I'm saying," Thatch says loudly over the top of him. "You get to ride herd this time. I'll check in if I get a chance, but, y'know."

"Right, yoi. I'll get Haruta to sleep. Hey, when you're not so busy, though…"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll make you your tea." Thatch sighs, leans on the counter, and says, "Ace better appreciate this. I think Jozu is ready to cry."

"He's not the only one, yoi. Izo's had his men making paper chains since yesterday, and there was a paper war going on when I checked in."

"I'll handle the rest of the Commanders," Thatch says. "That's what I'm for, after all. Haruta will keep us all on track, I'll keep us all fed and happy, and you keep Haruta sane. Frankly, I think you have the harder job."

Marco grabs one more cookie and gives him a small smile. "Then we agree. I better get to it, yoi."

"And check on Pops!" Thatch hollers after him. He has no confidence that Marco heard him and makes a note to do it himself. "Marco! Did you hear—hang on, less orange in that, I think. No, not the pith—oh, lemon, yeah, that could work..."

* * *

Checking on Pops ends up getting pushed further and further down the list as Thatch rallies his Division, lays out menus, tries to balance budgets, and peels endless batches of chestnuts and potatoes.

He does make time to stop in on every Commander at least once in the coming weeks with favorite treats and seasonal drinks. They're slowly sailing into colder weather, and there's always a pot of something warm on the stove in his galley, whether it's mulled wine, chai, or hot chocolate.

He's out on deck with a couple gallons of warm cider when the tree goes up the morning of Christmas Eve. It's a long, messy process, and there's needles everywhere by the time they're done. Three people have splinters, one has a concussion from a falling branch, and Fossa throws up his hands.

"That's it, tree's up, I'm done," he says, coming to stand beside Thatch and accepting a cup of cider. "It's Izo's turn."

Thatch hums and watches as Izo's division swarms towards the tree, bearing armfuls of paper chains. It's shaping up to look exactly like the image in the storybook Haruta keeps leaving around.

"Hey, this is good," Fossa says, holding out his cup for more. "What kinda cider is this?"

"Haven't a clue, honestly," Thatch says. Izo sets a beautiful paper angel on the top of the tree, with tinsel delicately draped around it, and Thatch winces.

"You don't know?"

"It's not chestnut or potato," Thatch says, turning his dead, sleepless eyes toward Fossa. "So I don't know."

"Ah," Fossa says, takes his refill, and disappears.

Izo takes his place, watching as his division does their job. "It doesn't look right," he says.

"It looks fine," Thatch assures him, handing over some cider.

"Of course it looks _fine,_ but it doesn't look _right."_

It doesn't, of course; usually Izo trims the tree in colorful lights and fabric garlands, and anyone who wants can hang up ornaments. It ends up being a mess, but the comfortable kind of mess that's familiar enough to smile at.

Thatch pulls a flash out of his pocket, Izo holds out his cup, and Thatch adds a healthy glug of brandy to the cider, and then another for good measure. Izo toasts him, takes a sip, and they stare in solidarity at the beautiful tree.

Thatch finally asks, "Have you seen Haruta?"

Izo takes a very long sip of the heavily spiked cider. It's answer enough. "What are you doing here?" he asks instead. "Aren't you usually freaking out in the kitchen now?"

"I trust my men to finish up the last of it," Thatch says. He takes a sip from the flask before making it disappear back into a pocket.

"So they kicked you out."

"They kicked me out," Thatch agrees, and spreads his hands in explanation. His fingers are wrapped in bandages.

Izo hums, inspecting them critically. "Potatoes?"

"Potatoes."

"Not to worry; Ace and his should be back any time. Don't worry, this'll all be over soon."

"Back from where?"

"Atmos got Pops to send him on a mission so we could manage," Izo waves a perfectly manicured hand at the tree and the presents his men are setting around it, "this."

Thatch hadn't even noticed Ace wasn't on board. "Oh," he says dumbly.

Izo sighs at him. "Go back to your kitchen, Thatch. I'd say to take a nap, but—"

But they both know he won't. "Right," he says, and goes to lose himself in the chaos of the kitchen for a while.

It's easy, so easy, and he's unmolding the last of the nesselrodes when Haruta comes bursting in.

"It's time," Haruta says, grabbing Thatch's arm. "Are you ready? Course you're ready. Okay, I'm gonna—"

Thatch hisses and holds steady until the delicate chestnut cream falls cleanly out onto the plate. "Okay, now, what—?"

"C'mon!" Haruta tugs at him, hauling him out of the kitchen and up the stairs, shoving him through the door and out into the crowd. Thatch digs in his heels and grits his teeth but it does no good against the force of nature that is Haruta.

"I have to finish—" Thatch says and Haruta shuts him up with a vicious elbow to the elbow and turns crazy eyes on him.

"Ace is here and we have worked very hard to make this happen," Haruta says, sticking a finger in his face. "I did a shitton of research and arranged everything and you're going to stand there and smile and pretend to be happy!"

_"You_ arranged everything?! Excuse me, who here had to plan a menu for the entire ship based on these ridiculous—"

"—gonna be a perfect Christmas if it _kills us all—"_

"—gonna kill _someone_ for sure—"

Hands land on both their heads and Marco squeezes. "Shut up, yoi." There's bags under his eyes, strain in his voice, and the worst attempt at a smile they've ever seen on his face.

They shut up. Thatch stares at him, taking in the signs of stress and wear. "You, uh. You okay there, Marco?"

"Never been better," Marco lies, and it's such a blatant lie, like, wow. He's usually a better liar than this.

"Yeah," Thatch says, and when Haruta goes to say something, he steps on his sibling's foot. "Yeah, that's right. It's Christmas."

A cheer goes up, and Haruta teleports to the front of the crowd. "Ace!"

Thatch elbows his way to the front as well, dragging Marco with him. "Ace! Welcome back!"

"Ah, thanks," Ace says, eyes wide as he looks around the deck. "What's—uh, what's going on here…?"

"It's Christmas!" Haruta says. "Look!"

Thatch follows Ace's eyes around, and it is, undoubtedly, Christmas. The deck is a gorgeous sight, straight out of a story book, and the people, in contrast, are wearing any bit of holiday gear they could get their hands on.

"Uh," Ace says. "It is?"

"Yeah," Thatch says, reaching out to draw Ace into a headlock, and Ace must be overwhelmed because he lets him. "Merry Christmas, Ace! Do you like it?"

"We tried to make it as East Blue traditional as we could," Haruta says. "Did you do any of this stuff growing up? Tell us all your Christmas traditions!"

"And what the hell kinda potatoes are the right ones," Thatch adds. "Seriously, I _have to know."_

Ace squirms out of Thatch's grip and blinks at them. "I've—heard of Christmas, I think? That's the winter holiday, right?"

Silence ripples out and it's Marco who says, "You…what?"

Ace's face flushes and he looks away. "Look, I grew up kinda wild, okay? Most of the time we didn't even know the date, much less when holidays were. We spent most of winter hiding in the forest; it was too cold to go into town. How should I know any of this?"

"You—you've never had a Christmas?" Haruta says, and Ace shrugs.

Thatch looks at him with dawning horror. "You don't have a favorite kind of potato dish, do you? Of course you don't. Why did I ever think that _you_ would be _picky?"_

"Holiday madness," Marco says firmly. "Okay. Everyone, listen up, yoi! Plan's off; we're gonna do this like we always do!"

The cheer that rises is heartfelt, Haruta blows out a breath and then, for the first time in what feels like ages, Thatch sees Haruta smile. "Be right back. I'm gonna kill that stupid angel and get out the star."

"Star?" Ace asks, watching Haruta draw a dagger and head towards the massive tree.

"We usually have a gold star for the top of the tree. Someone painted the Whitebeard symbol on it years ago, and no one's ever admitted to it."

"And no one ever will," Marco says. "Go on, Thatch. Don't you have a feast to make?"

"No," Thatch says, "I don't. We were so focused on doing an East Blue menu that we don't even have one turkey, much less several, and we certainly don't have the time to roast anything, not if you want it by tonight, and—"

"What about sea king?" Ace asks. "I bet we could fish a couple up and I can roast 'em pretty quick."

Thatch gapes at him, then processes that. "There is nowhere in this world where sea king is a traditional holiday food—you know what? Yes. Let's do that."

"Right," Marco agrees. "We're going to make our own traditions, yoi. Get your division on it, Commander."

Ace lights up and bounces off to do that, or possibly ruin everything; it's even odds with Ace, and Thatch finds he doesn't even care.

He looks at Marco, and Marco looks back. There's still bags under his eyes, but the small smile on his face is entirely real. "I thought _Ace_ cared about _potatoes_," Thatch tells him, and they both laugh.

It's more of a release than he was expecting and he leans against his brother and laughs away the stress from the past month. Even Marco sounds happy, and Thatch can't remember the last time he heard that.

"I didn't want to jump over a burning log anyway," Marco says when he gets enough breath back, and that sets them off again.

Then there's a war cry, and they both look over to the tree, where Haruta is perched precariously on the very top, stabbing the paper angel. Tinsel explodes out of it like the world's most festive blood, and Marco slumps onto Thatch's shoulder, still laughing.

"Take that!" Haruta shrieks, and there's a splash and a roar from the back half of the ship.

"No, Ace—" someone yells, and in the distance, Pops yells, "Bring out the sake!"

Marco sighs, but he's grinning. "I've gotta go fight Pops, and then I want enough peppermint tea to drown in."

"Right," Thatch says, still smiling. "If Ace doesn't capsize the ship, I'll make all the tea we have left. Go on, then."

"Here's Pops' Santa hat! Coming through!"

"—gangway, sea king for the kitchens—"

"Hey! Thatch!"

Marco huffs and sets off, so Thatch turns away towards Ace. "Hey," he says. "Didja catch me some sea beasts?"

"You know it," Ace says. "Hey, you think these two will be enough? We can get more."

"Maybe later; let's get these started first. Also, while we start on this, I need you to go to the galley and eat all the dishes of potatoes on the counter, okay? I never want to so much as think about a potato peeler again."

Ace lights up like—well, like a kid on Christmas morning. "Can do! Is this what Christmas is? I think I like it."

"Of course you do," Thatch says fondly; the deck is chaos, Haruta is setting the tree on fire, and a drinking contest has already started in the corner. "Hey, hurry back, though; I think Pops is gonna tell a story."

And Pops does, later; he's wearing his Santa hat and he tells the story just as he heard it, so many years ago, and not a single person says a single word about it being wrong or different.

"—and that, my children, is why we celebrate Christmas," Pops finishes to a wild cheer. He beams at them all and continues, "And if I'm not too drunk later, I'll tell you the story of how I met Santa Claus!"

"Did you really?" Ace asks, wide-eyed, and Thatch shakes his head—Ace barely knows who Santa is, and no one has had the heart to tell him yet.

"You know Santa's not real, right?" Haruta says, leaning over his shoulders to rub some tinsel into his hair. "Someone's told you that, right?"

"What?!"

"Oh. Well, c'mon, how could someone get all around the world in a single night?"

"Are you telling me no one in the Grand Line ever invented a flying ship? Or figured out how to teleport? Maybe Santa has a time-freezing devil fruit!"

"Ace…"

"You can't prove he doesn't!"

"…huh. You know what, _actually—"_

"Nope," Thatch says, backing up. He's got a freshly-refilled thermos in one hand and his own mug in the other and he sets out to find Marco so he has some plausible deniability and also an alibi.

Marco is, unsurprisingly, talking at Pops, who is absolutely not listening. "—only one cup, okay?!" Marco finally yells at him.

"Ah, son, it's Christmas!" Pops says, and he pats Marco on the back. Marco staggers in place. "Lighten up! Enjoy yourself!"

"Pops—"

"You're not going to win this," Thatch says and shoves the thermos into his hands. "C'mon, you can join me."

Marco unscrews the thermos as he asks, "What are you doing?" and immediately takes a sip. The face he makes is hilarious.

"I'm pretending not to see anything," Thatch says, tugging him to sit with his back to the arm of Pop's chair where they absolutely cannot see anything that might be happening above or behind them.

"Mmm. Did you put some vodka in this tea?"

"No. That's straight peppermint flavored vodka."

Marco squints at the thermos, then takes another sip. "I like it, yoi."

Thatch scoffs and nudges Marco's shoulder with his own. Of course he likes it; there was never a chance he wouldn't.

Thatch sips on his own drink, a well-balanced eggnog, and sighs happily. "This is more like it."

"What, this—mishmash? We had so many plans, and they all fell apart."

"Yeah, but isn't it fun? And more, y'know. Whitebeard Pirates-y." Marco holds out his hand and Thatch passes him the eggnog. He takes a sip, makes a face, and hands it back. Thatch grins shamelessly at him. "Besides, you didn't really want fire near the tree, did you?"

Marco gestures at where Haruta and Ace are trying to prop up the tree, which is currently boasting a wide charred section and is drooping slightly.

Haruta yells something and Ace yells back, and the tree shudders and starts to fall. Several people scream and rush towards it, and presents are trampled underfoot.

Marco sighs and takes a very large swallow from his thermos. "Hey," he says. "Hey, Thatch."

"Yeah?"

He's smiling, watching the chaos, and it's a quiet kind of content. "Merry Christmas, Thatch."

Thatch grins back at him. "Merry Christmas to you too, you nerd." He holds his cup out, Marco taps his thermos against it, and they both settle in to watch the show.

This Christmas is not traditional to anywhere or anyone, but it's theirs, and that's more than enough.

* * *

_happy non-denominational wintertime holidays, everyone!_

_hey pops tell the story again i wanna know why a world without christianity celebrates christmas too_


End file.
